I am trotting out an old post, from December 10th, 2004. I have been thinking about this particular post today because hubby and I are going out to celebrate the number nine at a restaurant which does not have gum stuck under the table, I presume. It’s all about Beautiful Moms, from the inside, out.

She could have been Miss America-Western Hemisphere-Earth-Galaxy-Universe that night as she smoothed Robin’s Egg Blue powder over her eyelids and told me it was called “eye shadow”. She stroked red cream on her lips and cheeks, and she made her eyelashes long and black with a fuzzy stick dipped into a pink tube. She wore a shiny blue and black dress and strappy black high heels. I was in awe, stunned that the lady in the bathroom mirror was the same lady who made my cheese sandwiches and did the laundry. I was seven years old and I was swept up into the flurry and the ritual of watching a woman beautify herself. More importantly and profoundly, this beautiful woman in the mirror, smelling of L’Air du Temps, was my mother.

Girls have long watched their mothers dab on powder, dangle chandeliers from their earlobes, and spray their hair into cotton candy spun perfection. This is nothing new. But for daughters of moms who stay at home, these transformations are often startling and rare. That night in the bathroom I watched my mother go from brown-shoe wearing to “Love Boat” passenger, ready to dine at Captain Stubing’s table. From my mommy to beautiful-lady-in-the-mirror.

It was that night I realized my mother did not exist to tie my shoes, cut up my meat, and drive the station wagon here, there, and everywhere. She gave herself so completely to our family that the mere act of adorning herself was revolutionary. The moment she ceased looking like my somewhat-frazzled and lovably familiar mommy I couldn’t help but see her in a different light. The dazzling queen before me couldn’t possibly change my baby brother’s diaper.

Tonight hubby and I are attending a semi-formal Christmas party and I will become the woman in the mirror. I have a little black dress. I have black heels, a pink satin wrap, and chandeliers to dangle from my ears. I have new lipstick in a color that would look garish at the grocery, but perfect by candlelight. I am getting my hair done by a professional, not trusting it to my fumbling fingers which can deftly arrange my daughter’s hair, but somehow make my own look like a bird’s nest built out of electrocuted Brillo pads.

No longer is my hallmark of glamour and sophistication housed on The Love Boat. My daughter has never seen Charo in an evening gown, but she has her own ideas of what makes a woman beautiful. I hope I have measured up on the inside. Perhaps tonight I will astonish her from the outside, stopping to leave a ruby kiss on her cheek and to change her baby brother’s diaper.

Our little Honda pulled away from the curb and suddenly I was self-conscious.

It was late on a Saturday afternoon as we drove through town. Every time a red light halted our progress toward our new apartment I thought of the people in the cars next to us. If they glanced over, they would see a guy in a tux and a girl in a white gown and veiled crown. The brown specks covering us once composed a hefty bag of birdseed. They would know we were married. Just Married.

We arrived at the apartment (he had been living there for about a month, I was still living at my parents’ home). Hubby opened my car door and we walked up the sidewalk. I thought of our new neighbors watching us and grew more self-conscious, especially when my groom opened the front door, snatched me and my yards of silk and tulle up into his arms, and carried me across the threshold.

He put me down and I looked around. Covering every available piece of furniture and the floor was his laundry. His wet laundry. Everywhere. I walked into the bedroom. His wet clothes covered the bed. They hung in the bathroom.

We were supposed to be getting ready to leave for our honeymoon. I had my bags waiting at the apartment. The plan was to change into more mountain-friendly clothes and then leave for Ouray, in the San Juan mountains of southwestern Colorado. Instead, we shuffled wet laundry around to expedite air drying.

I’ve been married for three hours and I am already doing laundry…

To be fair to hubby, he wasn’t clinging to his bachelor past or being a jerk. The dryer at our apartment complex was no better than an off-brand discount store hair dryer. He started his laundry early in the morning, thinking it would be done. By the time he was supposed to leave for our photography session, the clothes were still very wet. He didn’t have a choice. He was so apologetic it was hard to get terribly mad. In fact, I knew sorting laundry in my wedding gown would be something I would laugh about someday.

Eventually we were able to change our clothes and leave for the bed and breakfast hubby booked for the night.
It was dark when we arrived in Ouray. The moon was high in the sky, illuminating the mountains around us with the quiet, powerful assistance of twinkling stars. Our room was tiny, but utterly charming. It was furnished exactly like a Victorian mountain cabin—picture a fine lady in a feathered hat from the East Coast, circa 1890, marrying a grubby wild-eyed gold miner. We were in their oft-used bedroom.

Our bed and breakfast had its own private hot springs pool, and we seemed to be the only guests. We took a moonlit swim in the hot waters. All around us were the earthy sounds and smells of the wild—waterfalls, wind and wood smoke, cold rocks, steamy waters, and sheer cliff faces. I didn’t cry at my own wedding. I cried at the awesome display of power and creation that surrounded my new husband and I that night. We were cradled by sublime beauty, a divine way to begin our lives together.

Before midnight on our wedding day, we worked together at an unpleasant task and we played together in a pool. We laughed and we cried. We were proud and we were shy. We were now husband and wife tasting the sweet and basic nature of honey, created by humble workers and the majesty and mystery of the far-off moon, the future, power bigger than both of us…Earth and Heaven meeting in two crazy kids in love.

The honeymoon is never over.